


Spread Your Wings

by KuriKoer



Series: We're The Lucky Ones, We're The Stars [2]
Category: C6D - Fandom, Canadian 6 Degrees, Hard Core Logo (1996)
Genre: Buddies, Friendship, Hospital, Kissing, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Movie, Punk Rock, Recovery, Rehab, Slash, Suicidal Themes, Therapy, True Love, bad language, m/m - Freeform, rock n roll, romantic feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-03
Updated: 2012-08-03
Packaged: 2017-11-11 08:05:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/476397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KuriKoer/pseuds/KuriKoer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joe missed. Part 2 of 2, companion piece to "We're The Lucky Ones, We're The Stars". Takes place after the movie, and alternates only on the What Happens Next credits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spread Your Wings

**Author's Note:**

> see podfic link at the end

\---

 

_I can leave you, too_.

It wasn't the only thought swimming around in his head, floating in a whirlpool of alcohol and rage, no. There were lots of others; _no point now_ , that was a prominent one. _Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK_ , that was a less coherent but very heartfelt one, and Joe sat and thought it through on the stairs. Drink in hand. Deep thoughts. Circling around him.

Still had Billy's blood on his fist an hour later.

_I'm going. I'm going out_ , that was the thought. _Who's left behind now, Billy_?

One quick move, one big bang, and it was all over.

_I win_.

 

\------------------------

 

Fuck, that hurt. Something hurt, and Joe knew it was a really big hurt, but it was far. It hurt right on the side of his face, but far, like someone else's _his_ face. Through a thick skin, sheen, curtain, cerulean blue fog in the meantime... Cotton candy and mint in his mouth.

He opened his eyes.

He closed his eyes. No difference.

He went to sleep.

\------------------------

 

He opened his eyes. Blurry sunshine and something moving. Something in white leans over him and puts an ice chip in his mouth with a gentle, antiseptic-lemon-scented hand. It's cold and Joe lets it melt on his tongue and he thinks about mouthing a guitar pick.

There's a hurt in his gut.

Doesn't really remember why.

 

\------------

 

"Would you like to see your friend?"

"Huh?"

At least he thought he said _huh_.

"He's been here to visit you. Should we let him in?"

Joe closes one eye. The other is bandaged. He can feel it fluttering against thick, coarse gauze.

Billy is a blur but it's always Billy, he can recognise him through all the drugs in the world, through alcohol fumes and blood dripping down his forehead from a beer bottle thrown on stage, he can recognise Billy in complete darkness in the back of the van under a blanket with Pipefitter's snores a lullaby to them and John muttering to himself and Billy's ring scraping against him when those dexterous fingers brush against his side. Billy is a Rorschach of black and white and blond, moving out of his line of sight and back in again, and Joe can't take his eye off the bastard.

"You asleep?"

_You can't hurt me anymore_.

"I'll be back in a minute, gotta take a leak."

_I hope your dick drops down the drain_.

Door shutting, easily and gently, almost completely quiet. The only reason Joe hears it is 'cause he stopped breathing until Billy was gone.

 

\------------------------

Days go in, days go out. Joe gets talked to, doesn't talk back.

Billy comes in, one time, two times. No talking. He paces and bites his fingers, and then sits on a chair and crosses and uncrosses his legs until he has to get up and pace again. Blur-shaped Billy is very fidgety. And then he sits down, and it feels like hours. Doesn't move.

Joe breathes in easily. Breathes out. Chest going up and down. He feels a smile and he feels something dripping out of his right eye and he hopes it's tears and not something disgusting like puss.

His parents come in and he pretends to be asleep.

Billy comes in again. Holds his hand, longest time. Joe falls asleep. Wakes up and no Billy.

_Here today, gone tomorrow_.

But Billy is there the next day. Standing by the window and mumbling to himself. Joe breathes in and wishes someone would put an ice chip in his mouth.

 

\------------

Rehab's a bitch.

"Open your mouth."

_Fuck you_. Only he can't really say it.

"Open your mouth. Wider. See, if you do your exercises, you can tell me to fuck off in no time."

He smiles, or he thinks he's smiling, and he knows his mouth didn't move in the right directions but the nurse smiles back.

"Let me see them beautiful dimples."

Joe laughs and he can feel wetness down his chin. The nurse reaches and dabs it. He moves his head away. A little. It's the gesture that counts.

"Now, now. None of that. Look at me. Open your mouth."

He wants to make some insanely rude joke about cocksucking, but the words don't come together, even if he _could_ spit them out.

"How's it going?"

_Hurts_ , he says, only it comes out more as a burble, spittle, and he bites the side of his tongue. Now it hurts more.

"Five more minutes and we're done for the day. You can go back to sleep."

_Fascinating schedule_. He doesn't even try that one.

 

\------------------------

 

He wakes up and his hand is somewhere warm, familiar. Dry long fingers curl around his own.

They took the bandages off his eye a while ago. Everything is still a little fuzzy, okay, a lot, but he can see the dark smudges around Billy's eyes. Head lolling on his shoulder. Sleeping. Fucking angelic face. His hand clenches. Or, it tries to. _Aborted move_ , he thinks.

Billy opens his eyes, startled. Looks around for a moment.

_Where's Joe_?

Finds him. Joe knows Billy's staring into his eyes even if he can't see where the pupils are directed, he just feels it like he always felt it when Billy was staring. He leans in. Joe doesn't let go, reeling him in, eyes on eyes, even if he can't focus his. Doesn't let go. Billy moves in closer, face above his, and he can smell the fucker, can smell his skin, his breath, his fucking hair gel.

Prissy little fuck, couldn't even use beer and spit and glue and lard like the rest of us mere mortals, Joe thinks, but he thinks it fondly. Billy's all clean, but Joe can smell himself and he smells clean too, like soap and sanitiser and meds. Cleaner than clean. Squeaky clean. Squeaking, not talking.

_Wanted to tell you something for a long time_. 

He spits, like he used to do on stage, not in anger, not really. Just a little _fuck you, Billy_ , old school style.

And Billy laughs like he's on some incredible drugs, laughs and laughs, and Joe smiles inside. His eyes are closed, exhaustion taking over. He doesn't know if any of it hit the intended target, but he knows there's shiny spittle on his own lips. Then Billy's hand is on his mouth, with a tissue, wiping it all off.

Still laughing, breathless, and warm puffs when he exhales with each word against Joe's cheek.

"God, Joseph, you stupid _fuck_..."

God, it's good hearing his name like that.

 

\------------

 

Medication is not as good as drugs, but it helps. When they take him off the morphine, they give him other stuff instead, and he doesn't ask what it is, just takes it all in obediently, like a five year old. A much nicer five year old than he was at five. No tantrums. No throwing the syrup against the wall. No peeing on the bed.

He doesn't really miss alcohol. Everything is blurry enough without it. He sometimes gets a confused buzz in his stomach that feels like he needs a drink, but he's so fucked up on every other chemical running through his system, he just decides to ignore the pangs. Eventually they become so rare it's not a problem.

Sometimes he misses the rush of blow. But then sometimes he misses going to the bathroom without help, so he figures it's...

It's different, now. He feels different. Mellow?

"That's the drugs."

Not angry.

"That's probably the drugs."

"Prrlly?"

"Well, what you've been through. That would have an effect, too. Don't you think?"

_Sentimental cunt_.

"You don't think so?"

He'd had time to think.

_Life, not death_.

"I hope you feel better tomorrow."

"Fffkff."

"You too, Joe."

 

\------------

 

"How... are you doing. Joe."

John's barely stuttering, but he's talking slow, weird slow.

"Speech therapy?" Joe asks, and although it's not really eh-nun-see-ate-ed, like Claire says, John understands.

"Pills," he says. Shrugs.

"Cool," Joe says, and lets his head drop back on the pillow.

"You." John says. "Sound better."

"Thanks," Joe says and runs a tongue all around his lips, just to see if he can. It's not a perfect circle, but John looks away. Shy John. Sweet John.

And he just _knows_ John's thinking about Billy right now and doesn't bring him up only because he's the most polite of the lot of them, weirdly polite now, and maybe they've got pills for that too. Or maybe it's just John actually not wanting to hurt him.

"You took the ultimate step," John says very slowly.

_Took a leap_.

"Are you feeling better about yourself?" John asks, curiously, quietly, with eyes like someone listening to stories about the saints and about the angels.

Joe's head is as relaxed as it's gonna get, so he exhales long and slow through his nose and thinks about it.

And then he falls asleep.

\------------

When he wakes up a nurse reads for him the note that John left on his dresser. _I hope you found peace in yourself_ , it says.

 

\------------

He can hum, even if he can't say the words. He hums all the songs he knows, and then he hums something else. New. Few bars. Humming, humming. It's a tune. It's something.

When the nurse comes in to take him to speech therapy, he hums _The Rain in Spain_ at her. She laughs and twirls his wheelchair a little.

When he gets back he sleeps some, and then he gets up and hums his new song again, trying to come up with lyrics.

 

\------------------------

 

Billy's there like he has a right, like he's some significant other. They wouldn't have let him in, except someone told them he was there that night. And he's here almost every chance he gets.

It's not twenty-four-seven, it's not all the time, and Joe sometimes resents it when he has hours to waste staring at a beat-up TV set or the plaster on the wall, but he knows Billy's making an effort and he knows Billy's not actually leaving, so he lets him stay there, hours at a time, even when they don't talk to each other, and the nurses got used to it, so there he was. It was supposed to be some big moment.

"He's very lucky," the doctor says to Billy, like Joe's in grade one and someone needs to tell his mom that he's not gonna be a genius at math. The reason that comparison pops to mind is irrelevant.

Joe shrugs. "I don't feel lucky," he says, as clear as he can. He's not gonna be left out of this conversation. Billy's looking at him and his eyes are bright; they're always bright, but now they're sparkling, and only when Billy blinks several times in a row and takes a deep breath does Joe understand that it was tears.

The doctor then turns to Joe with the same condescending, compassionate expression that makes Joe want to punch him out and says, "Now, we need to ask you some questions."

_You're lucky I can barely lift my arm. Or aim. You fuck._

It's not one of Joe's regular doctors, it's the one that waltzes in every god knows how long and looks at the charts and then drops his commands from above like some fucking divine being, and never takes a moment to know who they are, those people in the beds. Joe has favourites among the docs and nurses, and this isn't one of them.

"Do you remember anything?"

_I remember freaking the hell out over Billy leav... Over Billy having a life. I remember wanting the band more than anything, wanting it so much I was willing to fuck up everything else, everything that was mine, everything that was Billy's, Pipe's, John's sanity, Bucky's... whatever. That what you mean? Fucking hack._

"My name, the president of the guys down south, that kind?"

Flippant. That's one F-word that can describe how he feels.

The doctor has that look of heavy-handed kindness again, and he leans closer, like he cares. If Joe could, he'd headbutt the fucker into the next century.

"More like... do you remember what happened that night?"

Billy gets up with a screech of a chair and steps to the window and stands there in the light like some golden angel of death. His shoulders are hunched and his hands are in his pockets. _Page the nurse, we hurt his delicate little feelings_.

But Joe thinks about that night. It was a hard night. Yeah, for everyone.

At least _his_ night ended at what, around three? Billy's night lasted since then, until now. And counting.

Joe shrugs. "Ya know," he says and smiles, "it's like I got a hole in my head."

 

\------------

 

The dreams are harsh. Some are memories, he knows; some his subconscious. Some are heavily influenced by the stupid endless reruns he's watching, mostly cartoons and comedies.

Some are wet dreams. Not in the beginning, but after he got some motor control, some clarity. Jerking off's still a problem. He manages, with a little initiative, rolling on his side and wedging a pillow and using what little hand movements he can master, thrusting his hips. It works. Not the best handjob, but it works. And he has to, at this point. It's way too long.

And Billy's visiting, that little _bitch_ , hugged him once or twice when Joe was sitting up in the bed. So yeah, the dreams are hard-edged and rough sometimes, and he wakes panting, sometimes thrashing.

Alarmed the night nurses a couple of times.

"What's wrong? Are you in pain?"

_You know the guy who sits here sometimes? The one you said was so sweet? Dreamed about putting my dick deep in his ass, him struggling like a twitching worm under me. How's that for in pain._

"M'okay... Bad dream."

"Aw, Joe. Can I bring you anything?"

_And the other way round, my legs around him, and his fucking skinny arms, stronger than you think, pushing me down. Fuck_. "Ice?"

"Sure thing."

He smiles at her with his most innocent big blues. She fluffs up his pillow and he asks for another one.

Morning nurse is gonna have a nasty surprise.

 

\------------

But it's better than the dark dreams up on stage and John saying over and over again, _And in the end, it's BANG_.

 

\------------------------

 

His throat is fucking raw and it's like screaming through a gag. His mom speaks with the rational, calculated tones that she always uses and if he could he'd just _kill_...

No. But he sure as hell wishes he could throw something, smash something. _Kill something_. But not her, maybe. And not himself.

And not Billy.

She's grasping her own biceps and her knuckles are white.

"He's still standing out there," she says, clipped, and Joe waits for the next line to be _what would they think?!_ , but instead his mother takes a deep breath and says, "He's a good friend."

"He's family," Joe blurts.

His mom inhales sharply. Bites her lip and goes to look in the window, just like Billy sometimes does. It hurts.

\------------

There's a volunteer that takes him for a ride in the corridors and on the terrace. Joe can stand up, with some help, and they're giving him exercises to keep his legs from going completely useless, but walking is not on the menu. Wheelchair derby is cool, though.

"Faster, pussycat! Kill, kill!", he shouts, leaning forward, and the guy behind him runs and takes a sharp corner, and nearly smacks into Nurse Jenkins.

"Mr. Mulgrew, would you stop causing such a commotion!" She surveys them, severe and unsmiling. "You could be endangering yourself!"

_What's gonna happen, I'm gonna fall and hit my head_? Joe snickers.

"Maybe some kind of safety belt," the volunteer suggests, a little breathless and exhilarated.

"Or maybe no running in the halls," the nurse commands, and points back to where they came from. Joe and his driver turn around and head back.

"Had a teacher who used to say exactly that," the volunteer whispers to him, leaning over the back of the wheelchair. "I was six."

"What a cunt," Joe says compassionately. The guy behind him gasps. "What? What happened?"

"Just, uh," the guy mumbles, "I never thought about Miss Jespersen as a c.... as that word."

"Six year olds run," Joe says with deep conviction. "And people in wheelchairs _roll_ ," he adds. The volunteer snickers a little with him, and starts to walk faster.

 

\------------------------

 

He never expected to see Bucky again.

The trip must've been hard on him. Shoulders hunched, face sunken in, more than usual. Hates people, hates crowds, he even hates noise now. Joe's in a wheelchair.

"Good to see you out of bed," Bucky says, drawls with that special way he used to say things, drag them out, when he was thinking about something.

"Yeah, huh?" Joe makes some tiny move, a few centimeters to the front and left, a few to the back and right. He can't really drive himself yet.

Bucky looks like he wants to say something, something like _how are you doing_ , but knows in advance it's a stupid question, and has nothing else to put in its place. Joe keeps rolling back and forth, until he's too tired.

After a long while Bucky stands up suddenly. "I hope things work out for you, Joe," he says, looking down on the top of Joe's head. "I really do."

Then he leaves.

 

\------------

 

"I just got the call that day," Billy says. Joe shrugs. "I was happy, you know?" Billy hesitates. "I was just happy to have this. I had to tell someone, you weren't there. Terry was. And Bruce was, and I forgot."

Joe takes a deep breath. _Billy leaving the band_. That was the spark.

Yeah, but there were a few kegs of gunpowder stacked up slowly over a lengthy period of time, there. _Billy leaving Hard Core Logo_. Yeah, but. _For good?_

Well, nothing says _leaving for good_ like a bullet in the head.

"I was gonna tell you." Billy, racked with guilt, with self-importance and that tortured soul and _oh, the humanity_. Oh, Billy. 

"You got some fucking ego," Joe says. _Not everything is about you, my Billy, my man. Not everything._ Just a lot of things.

"I was gonna tell you after the gig, I was," he keeps saying, and Joe doesn't even know if he believes himself. He probably was gonna tell, sooner or later, probably later, maybe after he was already on a plane, maybe not.

"Don't care," Joe says.

 

\------------

 

Rehab's a bitch.

Less medication, more talking about his fucking _feelings_. Bunch of fucking pussies. Like it matters why he did what he did; it only matters why he'll do what he's gonna do. _Stop living in the past_.

"It's important."

The medication he's still taking is mostly for that.

 

\------------

 

Rehabs are a bitch, plural.

There's the _feelings_ one, the speech therapy, which he's already used to, one for all his muscles, and one just for the face.

He smiles into the mirror every day and feels like a fake and like an idiot. But he can also see how his mouth is less and less crooked. And he thinks he sees the ugly scars, big and red, sort of shrinking and fading. Slowly.

Everything's happening slowly.

"How about we learn to walk before we run, and learn to stand before we walk?"

"How about we learn some fucking original sentences?", he bites back, tremors running through his legs, holding onto the rails with sweaty, clenched palms.

"You're doing incredibly well, Joe."

"You patronise me one more time, I'll learn how to kick your ass," he grins, panting, and the nurse smiles back.

From that day on, it's _We learn how to walk before we learn how to kick some ass, right_? But only when Joe's alone in the therapy room, with no little old ladies eavesdropping.

 

\------------------------

 

"Good to see ya, buddy," Billy says, words soft on his lips, some emotion soft in his eyes, and Joe takes a deep breath and exhibits what he learned to do especially for this occasion. Fold this finger, and this finger, and these two fingers; leave the middle one erect; raise hand to Billy's face.

Billy smiles wide and happy, but at least the softness is mostly gone, it only trembles a little around the edges of his smile. And then he licks his lips and Joe can't keep his eyes off it.

Stupid Billy always had red lips. Kinda red. Like he ate a lollipop. _Like he could stick something in there_ that would make Joe _groan_.

Joe swallows, and then looks quickly, as quick as he can anyway, up to Billy's eyes, and he can see when it sinks in, Billy's eyes widening in surprise. And then he does it again, tongue swiping slow and steady along his lower lip, teeth capturing it for a moment. Joe looks up again. Bright eyes, but he doesn't think it's tears this time.

"Pricktease," he breathes, because he can feel it tightening in his groin, he can feel Billy's wet little tip-of-the-tongue like it's right there on the head of his cock.

"Yeah, well," Billy says easily, winks at him, and for a moment it's almost like old times, back in his basement when they were not-really-kids and just young and stupid and could roll around on each other and just not worry about anything. And Joe jerked off three times yesterday, in the bathroom, so he's pretty happy with himself. 

"Didn't shoot _that_ off," he mumbles, grinning at Billy and eyeing his crotch. And then he grabs his own, leering, letting his legs fall apart a little.

Billy laughs a little and says, "Suck your own."

"Would if I could," Joe gives the predictable retort.

And Billy brings up the same era, like he thought about it too. "Remember when you tried, we were what, grade eight?"

"Yeah," Joe laughs, remembering the creak in his spine, "nearly broke my back."

Billy laughs either with him or at him, and it doesn't matter because Billy is happy and happy Billy is way better than angry Billy, or sad Billy, or actually crying like a little bitch when he thinks Joe's asleep or can't see straight. So Joe laughs happily right along with him and then Billy touches his face, just briefly, just running fingers on his chin. And then takes his hand away and smiles, that sweet, intimate, little shy smile of his.

 

\------------------------

 

"Way to go, Joseph!"

Nurse Ben is kinda into rock, in the sense that he knows who the Rolling Stones are and has a faded Green Day t-shirt under the standard whites. Joe played him some tapes. He thought it was cool, but not as cool as this.

"One more step. Come on, one more. I'll catch you if you fall. Trust me."

_Catch you if you fall_. Joe tries not to think about anything except one foot in front of the other, and then he's on the other side of the room.

And then he falls into Ben's arms, on purpose.

"Swooning princess."

"Yeah, you're a regular Diana," the nurse laughs and helps Joe sit down. "You know, I think we're pretty much done with you."

Joe frowns. "What?"

"Hospital is for sick people, Joe," Ben smiles. "I don't think you're gonna stay here much longer."

"You're shitting me," Joe mumbles, and he knows he should be happy but he's just... apprehensive.

 

\------------

 

"It's a great place."

Joe frowns again, has done for most of the conversation. "Is it a loony bin?"

"No, nothing like that. Although you still have to..."

"The sessions, I know."

"And the pills."

"And the pills." All the time they mocked John, but Joe knew somehow that he'd probably end up the same. And the pills did make him feel better.

People said they'd make him feel not like himself. Like a zombie. No creativity. No music. No soul. But he can still feel his soul just fine. And he's still writing music. New music.

_Good_ music.

"It's just a place to help you develop your skills further, as much as possible."

"No unicycling?", Joe asks, flippant.

The doctor's voice softens. "You're doing very well. Your motor skills are, well, superb. You were..."

"Lucky," Joe finishes. He snorts.

"You've seen the people in Ward C," the doctor says severely. That's all he needs to say. Joe explored the whole hospital, including the vegetable store, when he still had his wheels.

Not so easy on crutches.

But he still makes some distance with them every day.

"You could still do more. A lot more. This place specialises in physical therapy. You could go there, relax, stretch your muscles..."

"Is there a spa?" Joe asks. "I'd like a spa, please. Five stars only, no crummy four stars..."

"It's not a vacation," the doctor says. "It's hard work. Lots of hard work."

Joe looks down at his own feet. Hard work he can do.

\------------

 

Billy comes to visit on the last week he's at the hospital. Joe's nervous and a little twitchy, but it's still, it's something happy, something big. Billy's arm on his arm, on his shoulder, touching his side when he's helping him out of bed, and Joe prowls around the room on his crutches for a little time, showing off. Naomi is there, even though her shift ended, looking on, clapping. Joe takes a turn around Billy and Billy turns and it's a little like they're dancing. Naomi's claps slow and then stop, and she's grinning.

"Come on, let's go take a walk," Joe says, exhilarated and dizzy with success, drunk on the future. Maybe it's shortness of breath from exertion, too.

"Don't overdo it," Naomi warns, and she starts to pack her bag. "I mean it." She puts on her jacket and heads for the door. "I'm outta here. Don't let me hear you stressed yourself tomorrow."

"We're all outta here, sweet Naomi, beautiful, rose-scented Naomi," Joe laughs and leers.

She turns her nurse-eyes on Billy. "Keep an eye on him."

"Will do," Billy says and salutes, and gives her that little smile that could charm the panties off anyone. She shakes her head and smiles back and leaves.

"Come on," Joe urges. "Let's go."

"Go where," Billy starts, but he's heading after Joe, holding the door for him. Sticks first, feet later, lean as much weight on the legs as you can without falling, Joe hurries down the corridor, doesn't know where. Just going, going, gone. Billy right behind him. But not going any faster.

He has to stop after too short a time. Lean against the wall, catch his breath.

Billy slouches against the opposite wall, does that thing he always does that makes standing around look sexy. Son of a bitch. But he waits, and he doesn't say anything about having to wait, just looks Joe up and down, and smiles.

"What're you looking at, fucker?" Joe breathes, grinning maniacally.

Billy shrugs his shoulders, rolling them against the green plaster, and a young woman walking down the hallway turns her head.

"Fuck you. Let's go," Joe says, pushing himself off the wall and onto the crutches, taking a left and heading for the vending machines at the end of the floor. There's chairs there.

Billy is one step behind.

He finally makes it, his legs are burning, his vision swimming. He drops, ungainly, his butt hitting the plastic with a creak. He can't catch his breath.

"Wait here a second," Billy says and disappears.

Joe closes his eyes and lets his head drop back against the wall, and takes deep breaths until his face is less hot.

"Got you something," Billy says, heading towards him with a styrofoam cup. "Nurses gave it to me. Those vending machines are shit, there's nothing in it I'd give a person unless I wanted to _make_ them sick."

Joe laughs and Billy is standing right over him, orange juice sloshing in the cup, one leg brushing Joe's knee, and Joe thinks, _if I drop head first, my face will hit his crotch_.

"The food here isn't fit for a wild pig," Billy keeps ranting.

"You know that 'cause you tried?", Joe says, and he grins up, and just like that, metal shutters slam down in Billy's eyes and he's a million miles away, thinking about something else, or thinking about nothing at all. Can't read him when he's like that. But there's _something_ there, Joe knows at least that, because Billy's eyes widen a fraction and his hands shake. Really shake. He's got juice on his sleeve.

Joe looks down at it and says, "Hey, I'm the brain-damaged one."

And Billy retorts, like everything's normal, "Always were."

It takes much longer to go back to the room afterwards.

 

\------------------------

 

Now came the real hard work. Skills like knitting ( _hand-eye coordination_ ), and riding a bicycle with training wheels ( _gross motor skills_ ), and games of putting cubes in with other cubes and stupid shit like that. He puts his whole soul into it.

\---

Learning how to play guitar. He doesn't tell anyone, doesn't tell Billy. It's fucking _hard_.

\---

More sessions to talk about how he _feels_ about the fact that it's hard.

"Shit happens," he says and shrugs.

He filches his file. _Suicide risk: moderate_. Nice to know.

\---

He hasn't been clean for this long since he was twelve, if you don't count the anti-depressants and the vitamins and the stuff for the headaches.

"A drink?" he suggests hopefully.

"Not on your life, Joe." The nurse looks around furtively, and then adds in a whisper, because being caught talking to a patient like that could cost him, "You wanna piss away what brain you have left?"

_True_.

 

\------------

The late, great, Joe Dick.

He looks in the mirror, turns his head a little to the left, then a little to the right. Big scar, little scar.

Hair looks a little funny, but he was never a model. He was a punk rock singer, songwriter. He still is.

He turns his head again from side to side. "Joe Frankenstein," he says to the mirror in a growl. And then laughs.

\---

_Drained all the anger out of the hole  
Died and lived for rock'n'roll_

Joe shakes his head. _That's a stupid line_.

Strums the chord again. 

_Drained all the anger out through the hole..._

\------------

Mary brings Billie and he looks at her and it's like he sees Billy's face, the brightness of his eyes, the angle of his smile. The shy little way she looks from behind her mother's arm is just like Billy was, before puberty and punk rock hit him at the same time.

"You still scared of the monster?" he asks in the nicest voice he can produce.

"No." Brave little thing. Looking him right in the eye.

Not like the cowardly fucker who sent him an unsigned package, a video of Jenifur. Out of spite or out of hate, or out of genuine interest, Joe doesn't know. It's a bootleg and it's shaky and full of really good footage of the sticky floor and the black ceiling. You can barely see Billy on stage, and that's the only part he's interested in anyway.

Little girl-Billie stares at him from behind Mary, and he's talking a little about nothing and about music, and then he asks, "Hey, can you get me a good tape of Jenifur?"

Mary hesitates.

"Come on."

"Are you sure?"

Joe shrugs. "What am I, five? I wanna see what he's up to."

Mary's expression is all holy sorrow and tender care. Joe makes a face. Billie laughs.

"I can get something, sure," Mary relents.

"Hey Billie," Joe says like a master conspirator, "there's really good ice cream in the cafeteria. Maybe your mom can go get us some, and you stay here with me so I don't get bored?"

Billie grins like the sun. Mary hesitates. "I'm not sure..."

"Come on, Mary." He makes his sweetest face. She's totally not used to seeing him like that and it catches her off guard, which is what he wanted. She agrees and goes away.

By the time she's back, Billie is sitting on the edge of his bed. They mostly talked about favourite ice cream flavours. Also a little about gummi candy.

\------------

 

John comes over and they sit and talk a little about how it is seeing things and thinking things just a little bit different from the people around them.

John is still with the same girlfriend and the same pills, but he's playing a completely new kind of music now. Country-Western.

"Country _and_ Western," Joe can't help saying. He laughs.

John laughs a little too and says, "F-f-f-fuck you, Joe."

"Man, as long as you're having fun," Joe says magnanimously.

"Yeah," John nods and looks at him with those eyes that look crazy but always knew a little too much. "You too."

\------------

A package arrives in the mail, from Mary. Joe shoves the tape into the VCR in the common area and swears enough to drive everyone else away when the opening credits roll. All that's left is him, the guy who falls asleep sitting up, and the deaf guy who plays solitaire all day. Joe sits too close to the screen.

Stupid sellout mindless droning.

But then there's also Billy on stage, and he's fucking mesmerising. They got a spotlight on him for a solo and he's _shining_.

Joe thinks there's not enough fire in the music, but he watches it again anyway. And Billy's looking good, looking like he likes playing this shit, so Joe listens again.

There's some soul there, he admits grudgingly.

A whiny soul of a pathetic little bitch, maybe, but there's soul. A soul that needs to be smacked around ten times to Tuesday, but some soul. It's not _entirely_ made of plastic and glossy magazines.

\---

The thing is, Billy's playing guitar on stage and _that's his place_. That's where he belongs, always has. And when he gets to do that, he's in another world, and nothing's as bad as it is when he's offstage, drinking in the back room and hating himself and hating Joe.

That thought ended a couple of miles from where Joe thought it should end. _Billy with a guitar in his hand is good_ , he repeats stubbornly, ignoring everything else around it, including the dark, fuzzy memories he doesn't want to have.

 

\------------------------

 

Billy looks dead tired and beat up and jetlagged or just hungover, bags under his eyes, thinner than he was, a little slouchier than usual around the shoulders, but when he sees Joe he straightens up and smiles, and that shines all over his face, makes it bright and golden and way better, makes his eyes fucking _beautiful_ like he's some girl in a fucking toothpaste commercial or something. Makes him beautiful. That smile. Happy Billy is a charmful Billy.

"You look good," Billy says and aims that smile at Joe.

"You look like shit," Joe retorts, and he can't help but smile back at Billy's shining face. "Looks good on you."

They go out to the yard where it's a little chilly but pretty sunny, and Joe goes to the old-man bench, which is free now 'cause old man Genner is probably having his nap. Means they can have this corner to themselves for at least a few hours. He sits down, and Billy sits next to him. He glances at Billy, and Billy glances back.

"How's the music?" Joe asks. He wants to hear it first hand. He lets his head drop back, so he can feel the sun dancing in spots on his face from between the leaves. Also, that way he doesn't have to look at Billy, and when he doesn't look, he can tell if Billy's lying. Sometimes.

"It's good," Billy finally says. Sounds truthful enough, but not really enthusiastic. "It's really good."

"That's good," Joe says, smiling up at the old-man tree.

They talk a little more, and then head back inside, and shortly after that Billy has to go. He didn't ask about Joe's music, but then, he doesn't know anything about that.

 

\------------------------

He plays a sort of acoustic version of _Something's Gonna Die Tonight_ to the nurse and finishes with flourish. He laughs and laughs at the expression on her.

"That's not funny."

"Kinda is. For me."

"You wrote this?"

He laughs. "Yeah. Sure."

She hesitates. "Recently?"

"No," he says. "Before."

\------------

Phone call in the middle of the fucking night and his heart races. But it's Billy's voice on the other end and now it races in another way.

Billy's extra excited and bubbly and shouting like there's lots of noise around him. Sounds great, like a club or something. Kinda hurts Joe's ear at the moment though because he was asleep and all around him is quiet and darkness and he doesn't even know what time it is but _middle of the night_ sounds about descriptive.

"Joe, Mary's kid!" Billy shouts. "Billie! Billie, she's my kid!"

"Billie is Billy's..."

_No shit_ , he wants to say. And _yeah, I know, 'cause you know, I'm brain-damaged, not fucking blind, or stupid._

And then he figures it out, and tries to fake genuine surprise.

"Mary's little blond kid she brought in? That she named after you?"

_What was your first fucking clue, dumbass_?

"Named after the dad," Billy says and Joe can hear he's grinning like a one-dollar coin. He sounds like The Dad in these comedies, right outside maternity ward.

Joe laughs. "You owe me a cigar, douchebag."

And Billy says out of nowhere, "I'm thinking of quitting smoking."

Wow. That'll be the day. But Joe knows Billy can... Joe _believes_ Billy can do it, if he really wants to, and maybe it's some late awakening, but why the hell not.

"Yeah," Joe says, "that's probably smart."

"Yeah?" Billy's breathless. Yeah, it's probably smart.

"Yeah," he repeats, and then yawns. He glances at the clock on the dresser. There's never absolute darkness in a hospital. It's fucking three-twenty-nine. "Wanna tell me more about it like, ten? Eleven?"

That would be after breakfast. But Billy laughs at him, says, "What, you get up before noon?"

"Fuck off," Joe says fondly and hangs up.

 

\---

The next morning he's a little fuzzy but he picks up the phone anyway.

"So what next?"

"He'll get every other weekend, when he's around," Mary says. "Holidays. He doesn't actually live near enough, but she'll go to his place in LA for vacation, to get to know him. With me, I think."

"Chaperone," he says and can't blame her. He doesn't really know what Billy's up to these days. He _looks_ a lot cleaner, but Billy could always fake it better than anyone Joe's ever known.

Mary is quiet for a moment and then she says, "I love the music. But the alcohol, the drugs, that's not something I want my kid to be around."

"I get it," Joe says. "Trust me, I get it. But Billy..."

"What?"

Joe shrugs. "How much is he actually still doing?"

Mary sounds like she's smiling when she says, "I'll know that when I get there."

\------------

 

Joe watches the Jenifur video again.

The thing is, he can't help thinking Billy's gonna sound that much better if he played _his_ new songs.

\---

Lyrics are a little all over the place, but the music's solid. He's gonna get someone to take a look at the lyrics.

\---

He sings at the top of his lungs, drumming on the side of the bed.

\---

_Look behind,_  
and what you find,  
someone lying on the floor...

Fuck, is that a _love_ song?!

 

\------------------------

 

"Smokes less, and always leaves the room she's in. Drinks a _lot_ less. At least while I was there."

"Sounding healthy," Joe says, chewing gum in her ear.

"Looking healthy." She laughs. "You know, this kid was in punk rock gigs all across the country, and she's got _Billy Tallent_ telling her 'no dessert until after you finish the green stuff'."

Joe nearly chokes on the sputter. "He didn't."

"He did," Mary confirms, still laughing, but it's very fond. "He's still a bad boy, but you know..."

"Also a good guy," Joe finishes it for her. They pause for a moment. He thinks about how he liked Mary, and he fucked Mary, but she and Billy might've been something more. At least on her part, but probably on Billy's too, a little. He tended to return what he got.

"Yeah," Mary says. "And he's trying to be a good dad."

"He'll make an excellent cool, crazy granddad some day," Joe says faithfully. Mary laughs and Joe can hear what she doesn't say. 

_If he's alive long enough_. And also, _if you're both alive long enough_.

 

\------------

 

Billy's sitting next to him and Joe knows he's missing a day or two with his kid just to be here. He's that important. It's kind of huge to take in.

Was a surprise, too. Joe was just hanging out in the yard, going slowly and a little painfully through the big boy books. His eyes are watering a little, and focusing is hard. But he's reading. Which is kinda cool, not just because it's a problem to solve like the bicycle and the fucking knitting and all the other stuff, but also because it's just cool books that they bother getting for him. He likes reading.

"That new?" Billy teases lightly.

"Har-dee-fucking-har-har," Joe says. Billy's hand is on his leg. The book table is between them and the rest of the world, and Joe is dying for Billy to move his hand just a little bit higher. No one would see them. But he can't ask.

"You seen any of the other guys?" Billy says, keeping a casual conversation.

They talk about that a little, about John's visits, Pipe's. His parents. Joe doesn't tell Billy that Mary came to visit. Not much point in that. Not that he's hiding, just... why bring it up?

Billy looks good. Clear eyes. Not fidgety like he was in the beginning, when Joe thought _he doesn't want to be here_. Billy seems relaxed.

It's sunny again and Joe wonders if it's his fucked up memory, or if the weather's nice every time Billy visits.

\---

 

_It's now or never_ , Joe thinks. _Billy, don't let me down_.

He points at Henrietta the orderly. "I was thinking of boning that nurse," he says conversationally. Testing the waters.

Billy looks up and Joe can see him taking in all the plentiful curvature that is the lovely Henrietta. He's not leering. He's laughing.

Joe laughs too because it's such a relief. And because he did beat off to Henrietta more than once, he's just a man, but that's not who he really wants. What he wants is Billy's skinny ass, his heat and his intensity. What he wants is for the other man to want _him_.

He grins at Billy. "I don't move as fast as I used to," he says lightly. "You want me to nail you, you gotta stay put."

He keeps a steady gaze on Billy. Who is looking down at his own hands and draws his shoulders together, and his eyes are open and unseeing. Joe takes a deep breath.

The sun sparkles on the tough tips of Billy's hair.

\---

Back then, there was... It was like what they felt and what they did weren't connected. They loved each other, yes, and they also sometimes fucked each other and it was never something that happened together.

One minute it was friends with benefits, except the benefits were promised, not given; and when they were given it was like a divorced couple having angry, messy breakup sex. Again and again.

Fucked up.

More when it was Joe on coke and Billy drunk to the gills and they clashed against each other violently, but it wasn't always bad. _It wasn't always bad_.

And the next day when they'd beat each other up it wasn't domestic, wasn't lovers. It was something else, like it was completely detached.

_Fucking fucked up_.

And sometimes it was less fucked up and he'd curl in Billy's arms like it was safe. He thought it was safe.

Past lives.

When Joe has Billy's eyes on his again, he says, "What, we gonna not talk about it 'til the day we die?" He smiles, tense. "I already tried that. Not fun."

Billy looks a little terrified and a little frozen. Overwhelmed. _Little Billy-bunny trapped in the headlights_ , Joe thinks.

"That's not buddies," Joe says gently, trying to jolt him back.

It doesn't show, but they're sitting side by side and Joe can tell Billy's shivering. Invisible, just vibrating quietly against his leg and against his arm on the bench.

So he decides to prod. "You know what's buddies?"

_I need you_ , he thinks. And, _listen to me_.

But Billy has a different answer. "Fucking someone when you're fucking them over, just to make it stick?" he asks with a lilting, questioning tone, like he's guessing the answer on a history test.

Joe sags a little. But Billy's earned the right to stab him like that. He breathes out a little puff of air and gathers all the courage he can find. And then he says, "Being, you know. In some kind of love, maybe."

_Fucking pussytalk. Romantic movies. Young At Heart_.

Billy gives him a _look_.

"Yeah, I know," Joe says, "but it's gonna be different this time."

And it will be. It has to be. Because the slate is clean, the score is settled; what they had in the past is down the drain like that stash of his that Billy flushed down the toilet, and he remembers losing his temper over that. _Never again_. It's a new future. That thing he feels, it's not desperation, it's hope.

And Billy snorts like he doesn't believe. That's okay, Joe barely believes it himself.

"What, 'cause you," Billy starts and then cuts himself off abruptly, like people do when they're trying to be nice to him 'cause he's a fucking cripple. Joe's fucking sick of people sparing his dainty little feelings.

"Yeah, 'cause I rearranged my brains, finally," he says bluntly. He makes a trigger-pulling motion by his leg, but he doesn't put his hand up to his head. Seen too many nurses freak out when he does that and laughs. And this shit is serious, he doesn't need Billy distracted. He wants to calm his fingers on Billy's inviting leg, worn denim stretched on his thigh.

But he doesn't. Don't want him to run away.

All his life, _don't want him to run away_.

"Saw a show of you with Jenifur," he says instead. "Someone sent me a bootleg. You were good." No point in ratting out Mary. She's actually a part of Billy's life now.

Fucking weird.

"Thanks," Billy says in this bland voice, like Joe's some fucking fanboy.

"Looked good on stage," Joe continues, encouraging. Scrapes for all the nice things he can say. "You looked happy, played happy."

_I hope you're not fucking anyone in that band_. Funny, he never cared before who Billy fucks, as long as he always came back home.

"It's just a gig," Billy says. Carefully guarded. But there's slivers of something in his eyes. Maybe it's warmth.

"Yeah, but you're good at it," Joe says. _Fucking brilliant more like. And you don't look miserable._

Not exactly exhilarated beyond belief, but not miserable. Content.

"No pressure," Joe tries to explain.

And Billy explodes a little. "No _pressure_?!" Sputtering, trying to tell Joe how it is in a big rock'n'roll band. A gig every night, big places, lots of people, lots of faces. Industry faces, serious faces you can't fuck with. Gotta be perfect every night, can't be shitfaced on stage, not unless you can play through it. Always on edge.

_Yeah_ , Joe wants to say, _but you don't have to worry about anyone pissing on the great exec, right_?

And Billy catches wind of that and winds down from his spiel and takes a deep breath. "That's not what you meant, is it," he says.

"Yeah, not what I meant," Joe says, because he's glad Billy finally got it. That he's sorry. For what he couldn't do back then. "But you did look good," he adds. "Sound good, too. Are you happy?"

_The important thing now_. Fuck knows it's not art, not with Jenifur. _They're not really terrible_ is not a compliment.

There's a long wait and Joe thinks that Billy is really putting thought into the question. Really checking, weighing, looking into dark corners to see if there's an answer in there.

"I got a good job and a kid," Billy says eventually.

"Yeah," Joe says and breathes more easily, and drops his head back like he's been doing all summer, out here in the yard, letting the sun and the breeze fall on his face at all the right angles.

_The important thing_. 

And Billy sort of twists in place and surges up and kisses him.

Closed mouth. No tongue. Chaste, teasing, like they did in gigs in front of a dozen or more people, like it doesn't mean a thing, except Joe knows it means everything. Billy's lips are dry and they press against his and he wants to grab that fucker's hair and keep him there, keep him there for eternity. 

He keeps his arms by his sides.

Billy sits back down and sniffs a little like nothing happened.

Joe's trying to bite the smile off his lips, but it escapes from the corners.

"Buddies," Billy says, and that word is every cliche Joe's seen in romantic movies, it's _I do_ and it's _forever_ and it's _I love you, for real, not just saying_ and it's even _not just as a friend_ , and Joe can hear that not just with his ears but with his dick and in the pit of his stomach, where he always trusted things when they weren't dipped in whiskey.

He's almost delirious with happiness. This shit is better than drugs.

"Yeah, you little fuck," he says, feeling his voice unsteady. He puts his hand not on Billy's hand, but on Billy's lap, where an innocent bulge in the jeans is his soft, not-yet-caught-up dick. Joe's dick. "Buddies."

**Author's Note:**

> *** Now with [podfic](http://luzula.dreamwidth.org/181876.html?mode=reply), by the wonderful Luzula! ***
> 
>  
> 
> Sentimental Me  
> http://anonym.to/?https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gNHkvLTgbzg
> 
> Lucky (only heard this after this fic was long written and posted)  
> http://anonym.to/?http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JT00jxhgvKc
> 
> Catch My Fall - Billy Idol  
> http://anonym.to/?http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V-s-fQb57Po
> 
> Country _and_ Western  
>  http://anonym.to/?http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cSZfUnCK5qk
> 
>  
> 
> NSFW: http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m02oo56mLT1rqtosho1_400.jpg


End file.
